Libera Me
by Kyrie74
Summary: Based on the ALW musical...after finding his abandoned mask, Meg is compelled to find out what became of the Opera Ghost.
1. Chapter 1

Meg heard the sound of fabric tearing as the rough bars of the portcullis caught the sleeve of her shirt. Still, there was just enough room for the petite dancer to wriggle beneath the rusting iron gate and into the candlelit grotto…into the Opera Ghost's lair.

The vault below the theatre's cellars was filled with massive iron candelabras, but only a half dozen candles were lit. It was hardly enough.

She knew that neither Christine nor the Vicomte de Chagny were there. She'd caught a glimpse of them fleeing across the underground lake in an curious black boat with silver fittings.

_I know they are safe…there is no reason for me to be here…_

In one corner, she saw a throne-like chair. It's ornate carvings were half hidden beneath a discarded black cape.

Something made that cloak stir. Meg wasn't certain what it was, but the cavernous space was rather drafty. Nevertheless, it had attracted her attention and pulled the cloak from the throne.

A white mask lay on the black cushion.

Meg could not understand the sudden loneliness that seemed to settle over her at the sight of that mask.

She picked it up carefully, realizing it was made of smooth, cold porcelain.

She had seen…in a fleeting, terrible glance…the horror that the mask had concealed.

But where was he now, this Phantom?

She saw no sign of him as she made her way to the organ, saw the torn pages of sheet music scattered around it on the floor like petals of a ravaged flower.

A wedding veil lay at her feet. As she bent to pick it up, something on the ivory keys of the organ caught her eye.

Even in the dimness of this lair, she knew it was blood.

His blood?

Do ghosts bleed?

_But he isn't a ghost, is he? He's a man…just a man._

She heard the splash of water, the rattling of the portcullis, the shouting of gendarmes and stagehands.

She quickly hid the mask beneath the veil and ran to the gate.

"Meg Giry! Good God, what are you doing here, girl," one of the stage hands shouted at her.

The torches the mob carried made the shadows lurch until it seemed as if the candelabra, the iron bars, the pipes of the organ were all writhing around her.

"I…I was looking for Maman," she lied. She knew Maman had returned to the theatre corridors above. Meg had seen her hurry past…without the Vicomte de Chagny.

They were trying to get in. They were trying to raise the portcullis, but the mechanism was jammed. They couldn't force it up. Others were trying to scale it, but there was no opening at the top, only rough stone.

And not one among them was small enough to crawl beneath it the way Meg had.

"There isn't anyone here!"

She grasped at the iron bars as she shouted to them

"I saw a man…he fled…he fled there…"

She reached through the grate and pointed to an opening in the wall beyond the gate.

"He was there…the Phantom of the Opera!"


	2. Chapter 2

When they had gone, the shadows ceased to move. Meg did not follow them, though she knew that was exactly what she ought to do. Her mother would be waiting for her. And there was no telling who or what was here in this strange place.

She remembered the chaos that has followed that moment when Christine tore the mask from his face. Had she heard a gunshot amid the screams of the audience, the anguished cries of La Carlotta, the slam of the trap door…

_Perhaps it isn't blood…perhaps it is ink._

_Don Juan Triumphant…his opera…had been written in crimson._

Hesitantly, she touched one of the thick red droplets. It was certainly not ink and it was still warm.

She wiped her fingers on the costume trousers she'd hastily donned before following her mother and the Vicomte down beyond the fifth cellar.

Had one of the gendarmes shot the Phantom, despite the risk to Christine?

What had happened here? What had happened to him?

She took a candle and began to light the others. Gradually, she saw more of her surroundings.

A music box stood on a pedestal beside the throne, a forlorn little monkey with symbols in what seemed to be a place of honor.

A broken mannequin was twisted in its own limbs on the stone floor. Meg shuddered when she saw it resembled Christine. An exotic-looking coat of embroidered silk was tossed carelessly over a chair.

Not far away, a coil of rope…a noose…

She did not raise her hand to the level of her eyes, despite her mother's frequent warnings.

She saw a drape of black velvet fringed with gold. It hung askew, revealing a dark doorway.

She picked up the candle again and, taking a deep breath, pushed aside the heavy curtain.

When she stepped into the room, she felt something soft tangle around her feet.

A black dress coat lay on the floor.

The chamber was small. The carved mahogany bed seemed to fill it completely.

A man lay on the bed.

She kept her eyes averted from her face as she approached him. Mercifully, his head was turned and the worst of his disfigurement was not visible.

Still, she could see the dragged and twisted skin beneath the ragged strands of thin brown hair.

She held the candle higher and saw that his shirt was soaked with blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Instinct told her to run away.

She set the candle down and leaned over the bed, wondering if he were even alive. She still kept her gaze from lingering on his face too long.

"Christine?"

He had not moved, but she recognized the same fallen angel's voice that she had heard in Don Juan Triumphant.

"No, I…I'm not Christine," she said, hearing the sadness and hope in the way he'd whispered the name, "it's little Meg."

Her hand rested on the bed, only inches from his, and she leaned over him. 

He opened his eyes and shifted on the bed a little. She had no choice but to look at him, grateful that the light in the chamber was dim.

"Madame Giry's daughter?"

"Yes, monsieur," she answered, not knowing how else to address him. 

"What are you doing here, Mademoiselle?"

"I was looking for Christine," she said, looking him over in the hopes of finding his wound. The sight of his bloody clothes was easier to see that his ravaged face.

"And you can see for yourself that she is not here. Now, go away. Let me be."

"No, monsieur. You are hurt. You…you could bleed to death if I leave you." 

Then she gave a little cry of surprise his long thin fingers curled around her wrist.

"Perhaps, little Giry, that is exactly what I want!"

There was only despair in his voice and that inexplicable need to protect him that she had felt when she faced the mob through the portcullis suddenly returned, drowning out the fear.

She shook off the cold fingers and, taking up the candle again, saw that his shirt was torn and that the blood was seeping around the edges of a bullet that was lodged in his shoulder. 

"Monsieur," she said, amazed at the firmness of her voice, "I am not going to sit here and watch you die!"

"You don't have to," he countered weakly, "I told you to leave me." 

"Why? Why are you so eager to die?" she snapped at him. 

His hand found hers again, holding it loosely as his strength continued to diminish.

"Because," he whispered, "my angel is gone. There is nothing left. It is over."

She didn't know what had happened between that instant when Christine tore off his mask and her departure with the Vicomte. She didn't know what she could do to help him…she was nothing but an Opera dancer.

But she knew she could not simply walk away and forget about, leave him to die alone.

"Monsieur, tell me…how do I stop the bleeding? I don't know what to do!" 

--------------

There was a silence that frightened her. What if he…what if he had died?

She prodded his thin wrist cautiously.

"Monsieur?"

He turned to look at her, exposing even more of his face to her and she couldn't meet his eyes.

"Monsieur, tell me what to do!"

"Take some heavy cloth and make a pad over the wound," he said with what sounded like a resigned sigh, "then bind it tightly with something. It will do until the Daroga comes."

She nodded and tugged off her vest. It was the only thing she could think of to use. But there was no way for her to tear the fabric.

"Under my pillow, Mademoiselle, you will find a knife. Use that to cut the cloth. And do be careful with it. It's exceptionally sharp and there's more than enough blood here."

She gingerly slid her hand under the pillow, not wanting to touch his face. She drew out a thin dagger and sliced her vest into large squares. She folded them together and laid them over the wound.

She heard him wince as she began to tie them in place with the large black ribbon from her hair. Already, she could feel the blood soaking through. 

"Now, I know you little ballet rats are familiar with the Persian. I want you to fetch him. Tell him to come here at once with his servant."

He paused and looked at her, her white blouse smeared with his blood.

"Cover yourself with my cloak. Once you have found the Persian, go home to your mother.

He gave her the address as she wrapped the massive cape around herself, gathering it up to keep it from trailing on the floor.

"Monsieur, what if…what if I don't find him in time? What if you…" 

"What if I die? Would that be so great a tragedy, little Giry?"

She turned to hurry off in search of this Persian, but he called after her.

"You needn't go back by the lake. If you will look in the alcove beyond the organ, you will find another door. It will take you up to the Rue Scribe."

She could hear the growing weakness in his voice and she ran to find that door, afraid she would not bring the Persian and his assistance in time to save…

To save the Opera Ghost…


	4. Chapter 4

Enveloped, almost crushed beneath the woolen cloak, Meg scurried down the side streets that led away from the Opera House.

She found the little apartment and pounded on the door.

A thin man with olive skin and green eyes answered her knock.

"Now, now, mademoiselle. You need not break down my door."

He looked her over quickly, seeing the familiar black cape and the red-stained shirt beneath it. He knew at once that her sudden appearance at his door was connected with the Opera Ghost."

"What has he done?"

"He was shot…he asked me to bring you and your servant to help him. Oh, please come quickly! There is so much blood."

Minutes later, Meg was seated in a small, hired carriage with the two men, the mysterious Persian and his servant, Darius.

Darius held a small chest of polished wood on his lap.

"When we reach the Opera House,Mademoiselle Giry, go back to your mother. No doubt she is worried about you."

Meg looked at the Persian with surprise.

"How do you know my name, sir?"

The Persian smiled and she noted that his eyes seemed quite kind despite a rather severe face.

"Come, Mademoiselle, I know a great deal about the Opera House. Probably more than the two bumblers that own it. Not as much as Er…as the Opera Ghost. But enough to recognize you."

But when the carriage came to a stop at that tiny, forlorn door in the Rue Scribe, Meg followed the two men back down into the cellars. Nothing the Persian said would persuade her not to,

She ran ahead of them to his room, praying that it was not too late…that he was still alive, waiting for her return with aid.

He was lying quite still when she reached his side. He had moved little since she left. One pale hand dangled off the edge of the bed and she gently took it, moving it to rest on his chest.

"Monsieur," she said, hearing the Persian and Darius enter behind her, "I have brought your friend. I have brought help."

He opened his eyes slowly and, for a moment, it seemed as if his lips would twist into a wry, bitter smile. All he could manage was a grimace of pain before he spoke.

"Well, Daroga, you've come to watch me die. I half expected you to refuse the invitation."

The Persian took the wooden box from Darius and set it on the carved trunk at the foot of the bed.

"Old friend, do you think I would say no when a distressed girl suddenly appears at my door, begging me to help you?"  
As the Persian unlocked the chest, Darius took the single candle and lit others.

Meg felt ashamed, but she found herself turning away from the poor man on the bed. In the light, it was even harder to look at his ravaged face.

------------- 

Darius was already removing the saturated bandage from the wound.

"It is not a serious wound and the bleeding has slowed somewhat. It should not be too hard for us to remove the bullet from him."

The Persian had taken a bottle from the chest and dispensed a small about of fluid into a tiny glass. Meg caught a hint of a sweet, herbal scent as he mixed it with drops from another little vial.

"Here, take this…it will help ease the pain when Darius takes the bullet from your shoulder."

The Phantom turned his head weakly from the offered cup.

"No, Daroga. No drugs. You forget…the opium and the Khanum…then the morphine."

"But the pain? Surely, you can't expect Darius to…"

"Pain, old friend," the wounded man hissed through clenched teeth, flinching violently and seizing Meg's wrist as Darius cut away his ruined shirt.

"I learned the meaning of pain this night," he added.

Meg gave a little cry of pain as his cold fingers dug into her arm and he released her quickly. When Darius began to cleanse his shoulder with a sharp-smelling clear liquid, she saw the Phantom's hand twisted into the sheet.

"Daroga…the girl…get her out of here…she shouldn't see this."

"Do you need my help, Monsieur," Meg asked the Persian,. She was unsure how much more she could stand to see, but it seemed wrong to leave his side.

The Persian saw her white face and wide, nervous eyes. He shook his head. 

"No, Mademoiselle. Wait outside. Darius and I have too much experience in such matters. We will manage well enough without you." 

She didn't want to look back at the man on the bed as she hurried from the room. She knew that, no matter what happen that night, his tortured face and bloody body would haunt her until her own dying day.

She went into the outer chamber and finally set aside the cape, feeling as if the weight of it would crush her petite frame. She slumped down on the throne, suddenly aware of the ache in her feet and the chilly, gloomy air around her.

Only once did she hear a sound from the other room, a single anguished cry.

Christine….

She covered her ears, afraid to hear that scream again. The voice…that voice which had been so captivating, so full of power and beauty in those last moments of Don Juan Triumphant…was now as terrible and distorted as his face. 

She curled up in the chair and waited until exhaustion pulled her into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Meg felt a hand on her shoulder, gently nudging her awake.

She blinked, dazed by the cramping of her limps in the chair, the strange surroundings. She saw the Persian looking down at her and she sat up, remembering the night…the blood…that face.

_What if he had died? Had the Persian come in time? _

"Is he…"

She didn't dare say it.

The Persian shook his head wearily. 

"He will live, little one. Had he bled much more…it would have been too late."

She took one slow breath, letting it out before she could accept the truth.

_He was alive…he hadn't died. _

But what did it matter…he was the same man…the same Phantom who caused the chandelier to fall, who had extorted money from the managers, murdered Buquet and Piangi…who had kidnapped Christine…

And let her go…

"Darius was able to extract the bullet. I'm afraid he suffered a great deal," the Persian explained, "you saw he refused to take the drug I offered him. And, yet, he did not faint."

Meg looked at the older man with surprise as she reluctantly untwisted her tired body from the throne.

"Darius is…cleaning up the mess. I'm afraid there was a great deal more blood loss. And that is my one concern now. He is very weak and will need a great deal of care. I would stay, but I have been summoned back to Manzaderan. And Darius must come with me. We leave tomorrow afternoon. Still, he cannot remain alone and I do not know if your mother would…"

"I will stay with him."

Meg had risen and looked up at the Persian.

"I mean…I think I can nurse him. If you tell me what to do for the wound, that is."

The Persian frowned and rubbed him chin slowly.

"I don't know, Mademoiselle. He is not an easy man to deal with, even when he is well."

"That's just it, sir. He isn't well and there's no one but me. I will go home just long enough to find fresh clothes and then I will stay here."

She knew the Persian was caught of guard by her sudden resolution. She, too, had surprised herself.

Why am I doing this?

Because, if I don't, he will die here…alone. 

At that moment, Darius rejoined them. He had buttoned his dark jacket to hide the blood on his own shirt.

"He is sleeping now, master, on his own."

"Very good, Darius. Mademoiselle Giry has volunteered to be his nurse. Will you let her know what must be done for him?"

-------------

Before they departed, The Persian and Darius waited in that lair beyond the lake while Meg hurriedly made her way back up to the surface, to the ballet dormitory she shared with the other girls.

Her mother had an apartment in the Opera House, but she did not permit Meg to share it.

"You are a dancer," the ballet mistress said, "one of many. You will live as the others do."

It was late morning now. The rest of the dancers would be in rehearsals under her mother's demanding supervision.

Meg slipped into the sleeping quarters and took a basket from under her tiny iron bed. Opening the armoire she shared with another girl, Mariette, she took out her clothes.

Her wardrobe was quite small, her life limited to the Opera House and the little plaza around it.

She packed what she needed and then changed out of her bloodstained trousers and shirt. She wrapped the dirty costume carefully and added it to her bag.

She didn't want the laundress to see them. She didn't want anyone to know what had happened to him.

She put on one of her white practice frocks and slippers. If she met anyone on the way back down, she did not want to make them suspicious.

She then scampered downstairs to the commissary. She might not know how to remove a bullet from a man's shoulder, but she knew how to help him regain his strength.

She remember an incident the previous season.

A chorus girl named Jeromette had an affair with the son of of one of the theatre's patrons. She had hidden the fact that she was with child from Madame Giry and most of the company.

Until, one day, she collapsed backstage and lost the baby. She'd lost of a lot of blood, but it was Madame Giry herself who efficiently and impersonally helped her regain her strength.

When Meg reached the kitchens, she asked one of the attendants for some eggs and wine. The woman packed the items in a small basket for her and agreed to prepare some beef broth for the next day. Meg paid her from the little allowance she had and rushed back to the dormitory to collect her bag of clothes. 

Carrying both the food and her own things, she made her way back down to the cellars.

"Take good care of him, Mademoiselle, the Persian said, as he picked up his coat and hate, "despite the past, I would hate to seem worse harm come to him." 

Darius left the chest of bandages and medicines behind for her, assuring her that he would bring more supplies before they departed in the morning.

When they had gone, Meg crept quietly into the Phantom's room.


	6. Chapter 6

He was still asleep, his breathing calm and his head turned slightly to one side. 

There was no trace of blood.

Darius had removed the stained clothes and dressed the wounded man in clean trousers of plain black silk. A faded blanket had been laid over him, but it had fallen away.

Meg picked up the blanket to cover him, but she paused for a moment.

He was so terribly thin and his skin was pale…not merely from the blood loss, but from years spent living in the gloom below the Opera House. But his limbs seemed wiry and strong despite his fragile build.

A long thin scar ran across his abdomen, slanting across his ribs and vanishing around his side. Another thicker scar ran across one shoulder.

His fingers were long and slender, the tips lightly calloused.

She drew the blanket up over him, being careful not to touch his bandaged shoulder.

Then she forced herself to look at his face.

It was a face out of a thousand nightmares, the entire right side of it completely distorted. His mouth seemed to twist upward towards his nose, half of which seemed to almost melt into his cheek as if it were made of wax.

The skin was discolored and deeply ridged, dragging up towards his temple. His light brown hair was thin and a straggling lock hung across his forehead.

The other side of his face might have been strikingly handsome if it were not so emaciated.

She leaned down to sweep the hair back from his forehead, but she shuddered and jerked her hand away when her fingers brushed against his parchment-like skin.

_What it the world had happened to him…what caused this? _

He opened his eyes and saw her there at his side.

"Mademoiselle," he said, with some effort, "give me my mask."

As hard as it was for her to see that face, it seemed so cruel to force him to wear that mask now…here in his own home, in his own bed.

"Monsieur, you don't have to…"

"Give me my mask…please." 

Meg found the mask where she'd left it in the outer room and brought it to him.

"Help me put it on."

She reluctantly obeyed him, raising his head from the pillow to slip the almost invisible silk-covered wire over his head and settling the cold porcelain over the disfigurement.

He seemed to relax a little once his face was covered.

"What are you doing here, little Giry?"

"I'm staying until you are well, Monsieur. Darius told me what to do for the wound and I will…" 

"I don't need any help now! I can take care of myself." 

He tried to sit up, but it was quite obvious that he had not the strength to push aside the blanket.

"Mademoiselle," he said with weary resignation, "since you are here, please, bring me some water."

She did as she was asked, holding the glass to his lips. With his mask in place, she felt a bit more at ease in his presence.

"Does your mother know you are here," he said, as she set the empty glass on the armoire.

"No," she answered, turning back to him, "I don't think she does. And I don't mean to tell her."


	7. Chapter 7

When she bent to straighten the blanket, she saw that he had fallen asleep again. 

"Well," she said to herself, as she quietly returned to the outer chamber "I suppose that's what he needs now. Only God knows what really happened last night."

She stood in the center of the center of the room, hands on her hips and her back straight as if waiting for a cue, for some music.

She looked around and decided there was nothing else for her to do, but attempt to straighten up the chaos of up-ended candlesticks and scattered papers.

The broken mannequin still lay jumbled beside the throne. Its blank eyes were more than a little disconcerting and Meg quickly dragged the thing into a dark corner where she could not see it.

Picking up the noose gingerly, she stashed it beside the dummy.

A bouquet of flowers…a bride's bouquet lay on the floor near the organ. Most of the flowers were crushed as if someone had stepped on them quite carelessly.

One white rose was intact and it seemed a shame to discard it. She pulled it free of the damaged blossoms and, finding a chipped wine glass, set the flower in water. She placed the flower on the stand next to the organ.

She folded the heavy cloak and laid it over the arm of his throne, wondering what it suddenly felt so ordinary and natural to be tidying his strange domain as if it were a little house…the quite home in the country she'd often dreamed of, much to her mother's chagrin. 

"Meg Giry," she'd snapped, "you don't have time for daydreaming and wool-gathering. Practice!"

When she'd picked up the last of the broken candlesticks and stacked the papers on the music rack, she tiptoed to his door again.

She was surprised to see that he was awake and he had managed to sit up a little.

"Still here, Mademoiselle," he said in a sarcastic voice that nevertheless betrayed how much effort it had cost him to move.

Meg didn't answer him, but turned and left him again. She opened the basket and, with spoon and bowl borrowed from the commissary, began to beat an egg into some wine. 

The mixture didn't look very appealing as she squeezed some lemon juice into it before pouring it into a cup. But it had helped Jeromette and Meg was certain it would help him.

She brought it in to him and stifled a giggle when he wrinkle his nose in disgust at it, the mask shifting a little against his face.

But he made no protest and she helped him to hold the cup steady. She knew he was weaker than he would ever admit.

As she leaned over him, a lock of her hair slipped free of her ribbon and fell across his bare skin. She blushed suddenly and quickly tucked the curl behind her hair.

Odd that such a little thing should fluster her so.

When he had finished the concoction, she noticed that a dark spot was beginning to form in the center of the bandage. 

"Monsieur, I will have to change that now."

He shrugged, a gesture that seemed one of habit and winced at the pain the movement caused him.  
She picked up the small, sharp shears that she found in Darius' box and began to cut through the bandage, biting her lips nervously as she worked.

He saw her grow pale at the sight of his wound.

"Go away, little one, I can take care of myself."

She did not answer him as she rummaged through the chest, looking for the right vial.

"It's the large bottle with the dark brown liquid in it, Mademoiselle."

She gave him a questioning glance, wondering how he knew exactly what she was looking for.

"I'm rather well acquainted with the contents of that chest. This is not the first time I've been forced to accept such help."

----------------------

Meg carefully dabbed the contents of the vial onto the wound, knowing that her hand was shaking.

She knew she was causing him discomfort; the liquid stung her own skin and she saw him close his eyes, tightening his brow beneath the mask.

When she had finished cleaning the hole torn by the bullet, she pressed a fresh dressing onto it and bound it in place.

As she replaced the bottle in the chest and gathered up the remains of the old bandage, she realized he was watching her.

The wavering light of the candle was caught and reflected by his amber eyes.

_He has such strange eyes…I don't think I've ever seen golden eyes before_.

"Monsieur," she said, straightening his blanket and pillow again, "do you have a name?"

He looked away from her then.

"It's been so long since anyone has asked me that, Mademoiselle. So long, I've almost forgotten it."

There was a sad bitterness in his voice that hurt Meg more than the sight of his face or his injured shoulder. She sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and took his hand.

"You couldn't forget your name!"

He looked back at her, drawing his twisted lips into a bitter smile.

"It is Erik. Simply Erik."

"Is that your real name?"

"My real name? My _real_ name? Little Giry, I never knew my _real_ name."

Before she could answer him, he tugged his hand from hers.

She rose quickly, remembering it wasn't really proper for her to be sitting on the edge of a man's bed.

"It must be late now, Mademoiselle," he said coolly, "go and rest."

He seemed to accept the fact that she was determined to stay with him as long as needed, but the awkwardness of the situation suddenly struck her.

_Where on earth do I sleep?_

There did not seem to be any place for her. The stone of the floor was too hard and too cold, even if she found another blanket. She couldn't bear to think of spending another night curled up in that chair, either.

"Monsieur…I mean, Erik, is there another…place for me to sleep?"

Erik took a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly.

"I suppose, little Mademoiselle, you will have to sleep here. The bed is small and I'm afraid I cannot be a gentleman and let you have it to yourself. I am not a gentleman nor I am I strong enough to stand. But…if you have no objection to sleeping beside a monster…a monster you insisted on saving…I believe there is just enough room."


	8. Chapter 8

Meg looked around the tiny room, hoping to find another place. It was rather…disconcerting to even imagine sharing a bed with a man…especially under the strange circumstances that had brought her there.

But there really was nothing she could do but accept his proposal.

She sat down on her trunk and unlaced her slippers. She had brought a nightgown with her when she took her clothes from the dormitory, but it was such a thin thing…it didn't seem right to change into it.

She blew out the candle and, cautiously, climbed onto the bed beside him. He had been right; there was just enough room for them both.

She tried to settle into place as best she could without nudging him.

As she curled up on her side, trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as she could, she realized that his face was still covered.

"Erik," she whispered, "do you want me to remove your mask?"

"No, let it be."

"Isn't it too uncomfortable for you?"

"I am used to it," he said in a tone that made it clear he didn't not wish to discuss the matter.

There was silence and Meg wasn't certain if he was still awake.

"Good night, Erik," she said softly…just in case he heard her.

----------------

Meg's sleep was deep and quiet, though completely without dreams. It was nothing but a gentle oblivion brought on by the strain of the past day and night.

She let herself forget where she was and who slept beside her.

She opened her eyes when she felt something tickling her cheek.

She found she was no longer tightly huddled on the edge of the bed. During the night, she had snuggled against his side. Her arm lay across his waist, her head pillowed on his chest, the delicate curls of hair…which she had not let herself notice before…soft and unfamiliar against her face.

She found she was quite comfortable like that, resting against him and listening to the steady beat of his heart.

And she didn't dare move for fear of hurting him.

So she closed her eyes, tried to drift back to sleep.

But she couldn't now. She was too aware that there she was lying beside him, that one of her legs was tangled with his.

She had never been this close to anyone before and she wondered if he felt her against him, felt the heat of her flushed face on his cool, bare skin.


	9. Chapter 9

Two things awakened Erik.

His left shoulder ached without mercy.

Even more disconcerting, the little ballerina…little Giry…had moved to lean on him, one slender arm draped casually across him.

He felt the young woman's body shift ever so slightly against his own and he did not dare open his eyes.

It was so unexpected and so intimate, the sensation of her confidently resting her head on him.

Her dark gold curls were cool and soft as they spread over his arm and he felt her warm breath on his skin.

No woman…no other living being had ever come this close to him willingly.

_Not willingly…she's asleep…she doesn't know what she is doing._

He wondered what she would do when she awaken and found herself like that, so trustingly embracing a repulsive and pitiful monster in her sleep.

_No…not pitiful…I don't deserve anyone's pity now. _

_I've fallen too far._

Instinct told him to push her aside. Or to turn away. But he was all too aware that he lacked the strength to.

She sighed a little and he wondered what she was dreaming of. Some beau, no doubt. One of the handsome, wealthy patrons of the Opera House…another Vicomte de Chagny would come and take her away.

_Take her away? You don't even want this bothersome, meddling girl here!_

_Where is Christine tonight? Is she tangled in that damned boy's arms like this?_

The maddening pain in his shoulder seemed dull compared to the agony that those thoughts brought.

Oddly enough, the presence of the petite dance beside him was comforting in some vague way.

Hesitantly, afraid of awakening her, he put his arm around her and heard her sigh again…ever so faintly.

--------------

When , hours later, he at last opened his eyes, she was sitting up beside him.

"I didn't hurt you, did I? I mean, while I was sleeping?"

He shook his head, realizing his mask was askew.

"No, Mademoiselle Giry," he said, reaching up to adjust it, "_you_ did not hurt me."

She tried to smile with relief, but only succeeded in blushing as she tucked her loosened hair back into its ribbon and reached for her shoes.

Her blush deepen when she noticed that the top buttons of her frock had come undone as she slept, revealing the plain white chemise beneath.

She quickly fastened her dress and slid on her shoes. Then she hurried out of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

When Meg reached the outer room, she sat down at the organ and leaned her head on her hands.

The blood had dried on the keys.

_I'll have to find a way to clean that…later._

She hadn't meant to wake up in his arms like that. She thought she could sleep without moving at all.

_I expected him to be angry…_

_So that's what it's like to wake up beside a man._

Rising, she did her best to straighten her rumpled frock, noticing that the only mirror in the room was riddled with a sharp web of cracks.

_I should find another place to sleep tonight._

Once she'd fixed her appearance as much as possible, she again mixed together the beaten eggs and wine for Erik.

"Erik," she said to herself as she worked, "the name suits him."

He frowned when she brought him the drink.

"Mademoiselle Giry," he said, taking the cup from her without help, "I'm not certain which is worse…bleeding to death or being forced to drink these revolting concoctions of yours!"

"You don't need to call me Mademoiselle," she said, idly pinching a bead of wax from the candlestick on the armoire, "no one does."

"No one," she added with a laugh, "but some of the fat, old patrons who make advances on me in the dancers' foyer."

There was silence between them again as she changed the bandage, finding it easier now. He flinched only once as she gently applied the salve Darius had provided.

As she neatly arranged the items in the chest, the sharp sound of a woman's footsteps echoed outside the room.

And a single ray of light slashed across the stone threshold of Erik's room.

He put a single thin finger to his lips, warning Meg not to make a sound as she crept to the door and peered out through the dusty velvet curtain.

She saw her mother standing just beyond the massive portcullis, a small lantern in her hand.

She rushed back to Erik's side, her cheek brushing against his temple as she bent over him.

"It's Maman," she whispered in his ear.

"The portcullis will not open," he said.

His voice was not a whisper, but pitched so low Meg could only hear him by leaning even closer to him.

"But she knows another entrance. Not the one from the Rue Scribe…another one. You had better go to her."

She left his side and went out to meet her mother.

Madame Giry stood just beyond the gate, raising the lantern a little when she caught sight of her daughter in the gloom.

The low, encased flame made her face seem to pale in contrast with her coiled braid and, even from a distance, Meg could see the delicate traces of kohl around her eyes.

"Meg Giry, what are you doing here?"

Her tone never seemed to vary. She might have been chiding her daughter for ruining a costume or rushing into rehearsals too late.

Meg didn't know how to answer her. She never knew how or why her mother had become the Opera Ghost's messenger, whether it was a matter of trust or convenience for him.

She didn't know if her mother couldn't be trusted to keep Erik's secrets now. She had, after all, led the Vicomte de Chagny.

Her mother took a step closer to the cold grating. Meg did not come forward. She remained in the center of the room, twisting one hand into her skirt as she did when she was little and her mother would scold her for poor posture during the endless hours of lessons.

"He is alive isn't he?"

Her mother hung the lantern on the bars and waited for her daughter to reply, but Meg remained silent.

_Of course, he is alive…alive and in need of help! Why else would I be here in this awful cavern?_

Suddenly, Meg wanted nothing more than to crawl back up to the dormitory, to curl up in her own little bed there.

"Yes, Maman. He is."

She would not tell her that he had been wounded when he fled the stage with Christine, that he had nearly died there…alone.

"Why did you help him? Why did you lie to protect him?"

Again, Meg did not answer. She was only too aware that this was the first time she had ever defied her mother.

Her mother began to slowly pace back and forth along the portcullis, something she rarely did…only when quite displeased at some serious mistake by a dancer during a performance.

The heavy silver chatelaine she always wore rattled faintly as she moved. That chatelaine had been her own mother's and it hung at the waist of her black gown, an unexpectedly domestic touch for a woman whose entire existence was the Opera's corps de ballet.

"You missed practice for two days, Meg Giry," she said coldly, as if the previous questions about the fate of the Opera Ghost were unspoken or forgotten.

"Yes, Maman."

"You are one of many, Meg. One of many."

It was a litany that Meg had heard so often.

_You are only one of many, Meg Giry._

_If you do not value you position in the corps, Meg, there are others who will._

_Do not expect special treatment because you are my daughter._

"I cannot leave him now, Maman."

"Cannot? Are you his prisoner, too?"

Her mother paused, one hand grasping at the bars.

_Too? She must mean Christine._

"I am not his prisoner. And I cannot leave him now."

She heard her mother's slight exhale of relief.

Her mother let go of the gate and took the lantern.

"If you do not return in a week," she said, "Isobel will take your place."

With that, she turned and left her daughter, a white face vanishing into the darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

When her mother had gone, Meg heard a low grunt of pain behind her.

She turned and saw Erik in the doorway. He was leaning against the wall, clutching at the doorframe support.

Meg could not imagine how, in his weakened condition, he had forced himself to rise from the bed and walk that far. He had even managed…despite his injury…to put on a loose robe of black velvet.

She didn't want to think how much that must have hurt him. The robe hung awkwardly on his thin body, hardly covering his bandaged shoulder.

"Why are you still here," he asked in a thin, wavering voice as she hurried to his side.

"Erik! You shouldn't be up," she scolded, "you're not strong enough."

"Why are you still here, Meg," he repeated, swaying a little.

If it was even possible, his face was even paler than when she first found him.

She wrapped one arm around him, trying to steady him.

"Don't fall, Erik! Please, don't fall…I can't carry you!"

He put his arm around her shoulders and leaned on her. As thin as he was, the weight of his body against hers was almost too much for the little dancer to support.

He let her lead him back to the bed, collapsing heavily onto it.

"You shouldn't have done that," Meg reprimanded him gently as she eased him onto the pillows and once again spread the blanket over him.

"Why didn't you go with your mother?"

Meg straightened and put her hands on her hips.

"And leave you here," she snapped, "like this? We are not going to argue about this again!"

"I heard everything. You'll lose your position…a position that _I_ secured for you!"

"You?"

He tipped his head a little and his mask shone softly in the candlelight. She could see that sleep had pressed the edges of it into his skin leaving a red outline in his skin.

"It was a small matter, a little gratitude to your mother for delivering my messages. A few notes to my managers, a subtle threat or two."

_So that's how it happened!_

Meg knew her mother had not recommended her promotion, showing no favoritism to her only child. And the managers had never seemed to notice her before.

"Thank you. If I lose it, though, I lose it. It can't be helped. After all, I'm just one of many."

She bent over and, before he could move or protest, slipped the mask off his face.

"Meg Giry! Give me back the mask," he snarled.

She ignored him and took the mask with her when she left the room.


	12. Chapter 12

She set the mask down on the throne where she had first found it.

She'd seen the way the edge had dug into his skin, the little welt that it had raised when he slept in it.

_He's suffering enough…why add to it?_

She had to find a way to occupy her time and his lair was still an untidy mess of books and candles and music.

As she worked, she noticed another door set into the wall near the organ and covered by a drape of fine black lace.

She lifted the curtain and peered into the chamber.

There was a black bed trimmed with silver. It was strikingly similar to the little black boat she'd seen Christine and the Vicomte departing in.

The bed was filled with thick, soft cushions of jewel-colored silk. Hangings of embroidered silk covered the stone walls. A heavy urn filled with peacock feathers stood in the corner. A deep, white fur was spread over the cold floor.

Against one wall, there was an armoire of some strange golden wood with a thick, waving grain.

The whole room had the look of a rich, exotic shrine.

She couldn't help but remember the cramped, awkward night spent in his bed.

_Why didn't he tell me there is another room, another bedroom?_

Then she realized why…this room was meant for Christine.

_Only for Christine._

She felt almost guilty for being there, it was not for her to see. So she backed out quickly, letting the curtain fall over the entrance again and returned to the dusty task of sorting through his books.

When she was finished, she picked up a few…ones that were small and light…and brought them into his room.

"Do you want something to read?" she asked, pulling a small chair up to the side of the bed.

"What I want, Meg Giry, is my mask."

She set the books on the chair, within easy reach for him before answering him.

"And I am not going to give it to you. There is no one here to see you."

"I don't want you to see…"

She didn't really want to see his face exposed like that. It was still too hard to look at him for more than a few seconds. But to force him to keep that hard, cold mask on his face was too cruel. She couldn't do that.

"Erik," she said, desperate to change the subject. "I need to go back up to the commissary. I need more wine for you and I need to get some bread and things for myself."

He shook his head.

"Don't go to the commissary. You might attract suspicion. Go out the passage to the Rue Scribe…there is a small market nearby."

"I can't. I haven't much money."

"You have seen the music box? The one with the Persian monkey? There is a latch beneath the robes…in the back. Open it. You will find a few francs inside. Take what you think you will need."

He picked up one of the books, glanced idly at the title page.

"Give me a pen and paper."

She went back to the other room and found a worn pencil and some torn paper. She brought them to him.

"Before you go to the market," he said, writing something on the scrap, "there is a little shop. An apothecary of sorts." It is run by a man from Egypt. Give him this."

She took the paper back and saw writing…she assumed it was writing…a series of delicate curls in a bold hand.

"Well, go on," he said in a tired, irritable voice, "go! Don't stand there, hovering over me like a nurse!"


	13. Chapter 13

Meg knelt down beside the music box. Pushing aside the burgundy velvet robe, she found the tiny latch and the chest opened.

Erik had told her there were a few francs there, but she found it was filled with money.

_The money from the managers…his salary._

She took out a few notes and felt something cold against her fingers. Tossed carelessly among the money were loose gems, a handful of large pearls.

She closed the box and tucked the money with Erik's note. She found the shawl she'd brought down from the dormitories and wrapped it around herself tightly.

She found the shop Erik had told her about. It was a small, tidy store. The deep shelves behind the counter were filled with boxes and jars, all labeled in that same swirling language as Erik's note.

The owner was a pleasant-looking man with white hair and a heavy black mustache.

"How can I help you, Mademoiselle," he said in heavily-accented, but perfect French.

"I was asked to give you this,"

She handed him Erik's note. He unfolded the scrap, reading it quickly.

"Ah! Monsieur Erik! And how is the old Trap-Door Lover?"

Meg was unsure how much she could confife in the shopkeeper.

"I don't know, Monsieur," she said, twisting the corner of her shawl, "he only asked me to give you that note."

The man laughed and gave her back the note.

"He's as secretive as ever, I see."

He turned and took a container from the shelf. He laid it on the worn wood counter.

"I believe this is what he wants."

Meg picked up the round box. It was smooth and cool in her hand, the lid intricately carved.

"What is the box made of, Monsieur," she asked, examining the delicate design.

"Camel bone."

He took the box back and wrapped it for her.

"How much, Monsieur?"

The man shook his head.

"No cost, Mademoiselle. I'm afraid I owe Monsieur Erik too many favors."

She took the parcel and, tucking it under her arm, bid good day to the shopkeeper and walked on to the market. She did not want to leave Erik alone any longer than was necessary.

As she walked, she wondered what sort of favors the man owed Erik. There were too many questions, too many mysteries about him.

She bought what she needed and hurried back to the Opera House.

When she emerged from the Rue Scribe passage, she found Erik sitting on his throne, his mask…and a dark wig…neatly in place, contrasting with the rumpled white shirt he now wore over the black trousers.

His eyes were closed and one hand rested limply on the black watered-silk of the armrest.


	14. Chapter 14

Erik paged idly through the book for a few minutes after Meg Giry left on her errands.

_Damn the meddling, insolent girl!_

How dare she simply remove his mask like that? And to walk away with it, to leave it somewhere beyond his reach!

_Damn her for being so bothersome and stubborn!_

What did she want from him? Who did she think she was, this little ballet tart who scolded and nagged and nursed him.

He let the book fall shut, heard it tumble to the floor with a thud as he pushed back the blanket.

He knew now…he forced himself to admit…that he would have died if Christine had stayed with him, if he had not sent her away with that boy.

She would not have had the strength to help him, to clean and bandage the wound.

_She only found the courage to kiss me…to save him…it was a sacrifice…nothing more._

He sat up, unsure where the line between physical pain and agony of the soul was drawn.

_I would have died in her arms. I would have been happy…for the first time…and the last…if she had stayed with me._

He forced himself to stand, knocking the rest of the books from the chair as he steadied himself.

_Damn that girl's compassion…I don't need it._

He'd lived so long without compassion…he didn't want it now.

No woman had ever touched him willingly or without revulsion once she knew what lay beneath the mask…not even Christine. That kiss…for all its truth and passion…had been forced from her.

He found a shirt and put it on, feeling the muscles of his arm strain against the tight bandage. The discomfort increased as he drew a wig from the armoire and put it one, smoothing dark hair carefully out of habit.

Using the furniture and walls for support, he made his way slowly to the outer room.

His mask lay on the throne, white on black. It seemed like an eternity since he had left it there. And it seemed to take him an eternity to reach the chair.

Since when was the mask so heavy in his hands and on his face?

He pressed the mask to his skin, slipping the almost invisible wire over his head with swift dexterity. Then he sank down, grateful for the sturdy comfort of it as he leaned back into the black cushions.

Across the room, he saw the organ…the violin case on the stand nearby.

Little Giry, it seemed, had straightened the endless pages of music he had written.

Pages he had scattered in rage and grief.

All too far away…he could not walk that far in his weakened state.

Music was now like a lover just beyond his reach.

He had no choice. He could only close his eyes and wait for the little dancer to return.


	15. Chapter 15

He felt the press of cold metal against his back…iron bars.

Was he in a cage…another cage? Or a prison?

He open his eyes slowly to see the flickering candlelight.

His mask lay on the floor, shattered in pieces as if someone had flung it down in a rage.

He could not move and he realized he was bound. His body spread out against the portcullis and secured with rope like some profane crucifixion tableau.

He twisted against the bindings and heard his the seams of his jacket tear with the effort.

His wig was still in place, but damp strands of it hung limply over his forehead and eyes.

_I am the Trap-Door Lover, the Conjurer of Manzanderan…why can't I free myself now?_

Something rasped against his neck and he realized that his own noose was coiled around his throat.

The other end of the lasso was held in Christine's delicate hands. She smiled sweetly as she gave the rope a little tug and he gasped as it tightened.

He saw the Vicomte de Chagny seated on his throne. The young man lounged elegantly against the black cushions, a glass of champagne in his hand.

The music box lay on its side by the Vicomte's feet. The little monkey's arms were movie back and forth, the cymbals twinkling in the light, but there was no sound…the mechanism inside was broken.

Christine walked towards him, holding the rope in one hand and never letting it slacken.

When she reached him, she began to gently touch his face. Her tiny fingers traced every terrible flaw over and over.

He tried to jerk his head away, to turn his face from her caresses. She would not let him.

Leaning against him, she kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft.

And they tasted like blood.

He heard the Vicomte laughing and the iron bars of the gate dug deeper into his back.

_Dies irae…Kyrie…requiem da…libera me…_

He didn't recognize his own voice, the Requiem…his first composition.

Christine gave the noose a sharp yank and the darkness began to fade into a hard, white light.

_Christine…libera me…libera me._


	16. Chapter 16

He awoke to find Meg Giry kneeling before him, her eyes wide with concern and fear.

He jerked his hand from between hers and pressed it to his throat, searching for the welt left by the rope.

It was not there. He was not dead. Christine had not killed him.

"Erik," Meg said, sounded quite out of breath, "you frightened me. I thought…"

"You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

She nodded slowly, obviously unwilling to say such a thing.

"Perhaps." he added coldly, "you were even hoping. Then you could hurry back to your mother, to your rehearsals."

"Don't talk like that, Erik," she said, her shawl falling as she stood, "you shouldn't have done this…you need to rest."

_She certainly has her late father's temper…when she's provoked. And she obstinate…like her mother._

But he would not be bossed around like a hapless errand boy by this young woman.

Nor would he let her know how close to death he'd come again, how that dream had drained away what little strength he had left.

He gripped the arms of the chair and rose, towering over her.

"Mademoiselle Giry," he said, desperately resorting to formality, "help me to the organ."

She let him put his hand on her shoulder, let him use her for support.

He sat down before the instrument and she lit some candles for him.

He didn't seem to notice the dried blood as he laid his hands on the keys, trembling as if touching a long lost love…the way he would touch Christine if she came back to him now.

Meg reminded beside him, waiting, uncertain.

He did not play, but merely ghosted his long fingers over the ivory.

_It's over now…the music of the night._

_Can I still play…can I still compose?_

He felt smooth keys against his skin and closed his eyes.

_You did before Christine…before you ever heard that lonely girl in that shadowy chapel…it isn't something that comes and goes…she may have taken your heart and soul, but can she take this, too?_

He open his eyes again and saw his own dried blood on the keys. He had been so sick with rage and grief and madness that he had no even realized one of those foolish gendarmes had wounded him.

To his own amazement, he felt tears running down both his cheeks, masked and unmasked.

A single salty drop fell on the keyboard, mingling with the blood.

He was even more startled when he felt Meg Giry gently wrap her arms around. Mindful of his injury, she held him close as he wept.


	17. Chapter 17

Meg set the jar down on the tiny table beside Erik, noticing the intricate mother-of-pearl pattern inlaid on the ebony top. She brought some fresh bandages from the bedroom and laid them beside the carved jar of ointment.

She didn't meet his eyes as she slipped his shirt from his thin body and removed the bandages.

She was relieved to see that the wound was slowly beginning to heal. She carefully spread the slippery green salve over it.

As she leaned over him to wrap a fresh bandage over his shoulder, her skirt pooled over his knees.

When she began to button his shirt for him, he caught her wrist.

"I can manage now," he said tensely.

But then, as he let go of her hand, his voice softened.

"Thank you, Meg."

For some reason, that commonplace civility made Meg blush as she back away from him and pulled her skirt into place.

She unwrapped the parcel from the market.

"I brought more wine and eggs from the market," she said, setting her purchases out on his desk.

She tried not to grin when he scowled at her.

"You need to build up your strength, Erik. I can't stay with you forever."

She came back to him with a napkin which she spread on his lap.

"Here," she said, handing him a soft roll, "I bought some brioche, too. You must be hungry."

He took the bread from her as she set a small glass of wine beside him.

"I eat very little when I…"

He paused. What good would it to trouble this girl with his strange habits, habits acquired during a life of isolation.

"Thank you again, Meg," he said instead.

She drew some franc notes from his pocket.

"Here's the rest of your money, Erik. The Egyptian man did not charge me for the salve and the food did not cost much."

She held out the money towards him.

"Is that all you bought," he said, gesturing to the items on the desk.

She continued to surprise him. There was no need for her to return the money to him. She could have bought much more, a little something for herself.

He remembered those early days when he would secretly leave little gifts for Christine. Long before the obsession began, when he was only her unknown teacher, he would leave small presents for her…a pretty tin of chocolates, a blue silk ribbon for her hair, a flower…

How she would smile, her eyes lighting up with delight at each unexpected treat.

"You may keep that, Meg," he said.

But she had already tucked it back inside the music box and snapped the lid shut.


	18. Chapter 18

That night, she said nothing about the other bedroom with its tapestry hangings and rich silk cushions.

She knotted the belt of her heavy flannel dressing gown and joined Erik in his room. His mood had improved since the previous day, but he had said little to her after she returned his money.

She could not imagine why he seemed so offended.

She frowned when she saw he was already asleep…with his mask on.

_This is getting very tedious. _

She slipped the mask off so carefully he didn't awaken and laid it on the armoire. His skin was still raw from where the edges had been pressed into it.

She went and found the jar of salve. Erik had explained that it was merely a mixture of herbs and oils that would help him the heal.

She took a small dollop of it onto her fingertips. And she hesitated.

She didn't want to touch his face.

_If you don't do this for him, Meg, no one will. _

Gently, she smoothed the ointment onto his skin. Then she wiped her hands and, adjusting the blanket over his shoulders, curled up next to him.

She never realized that he had been awake the entire time.

In the morning, however, he frowned as she removed the bandages and applied fresh salve to his wound.

"I want you to go back today. To rehearsals." 

"Back?"

"Yes. You've been very generous and…" 

"You're not strong enough!"

"You'll lose your position. A position that _I_ secured for you!"

"You need me here!"

"I assure you, Mademoiselle Giry, I do not…if you think that this is the worst I've…"

She set the bone jar done with a bang that seemed to echo in the silence of his lair. Without another word, she stormed from his room. 

-----------------

It was almost two hours before Meg came back into his room.

Erik had bandaged his shoulder himself. Despite the innate dexterity of his hands, the dressing was clumsily done.

A book lay page-down on the bed beside him. 

"Erik, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stormed out like that. It was very childish of me."

He didn't say a word, but picked up the discarded book.

Meg pushed the other books off the little chair and sat down beside him.

"Erik, I thought about what you said. I always thought that the managers promoted me as a favor to Maman. Not that she'd asked for it, though."

She tucked her feet up on the bedrail and propped her elbows on her knees.

She knew she was a very good dancer, but there were many such dancers in the corps. And some, like La Sorelli, were much better.

She wondered exactly how Erik had secured her promotion over La Sorelli. A bit of blackmail against the previous managers? A subtle threat or two? She hoped it hadn't been something worse.

"I'll go back up for rehearsals, Erik," she continued, since he obviously didn't intend to answer her, "since I didn't really earn my position, I'll have to work harder to deserve it. But I'm coming back when they are over. And you cannot stop me."

There was a silence. Finally, Erik slammed the book shut with more force than Meg expected. His twisted lips curved into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. 

"Before you go, Meg, would you be so good as to re-bandage my shoulder properly?"

Meg grinned as she set to work, feeling as if she'd won a small victory.

-------

When Meg slipped into the dancers' common changing room, she was met with a few smiles and more than a few whispers.

The other girls of the corps, compulsive gossips that they were, giggled and suggested that Meg's absence involved a lover. Not one of them connected it to the mysterious Opera Ghost and the disappearance of Christine Daae.

Her mother said nothing when she took her place in line, acknowledging her return with a slight frown and a nod.

When practice was over, they were summoned to the auditorium by Monsieur Reyer.

The managers, it seemed, were extremely eager to put the strange events of Don Juan Triumphant behind them as soon as possible. Therefore, a gala performance was planned with excerpts from some the most popular opera and ballets in the theatre's repertoire.

As the other chorus girls and dancers twittered with excitement, Meg sighed wearily. 

----------------

When Meg had gone, Erik rose. He found that if he moved slowly, resting every now and then, he was able to dress and make his way to the other room.

He did not put his mask on. If that stubborn young woman was willing to look at his horrible features, so be it. He was getting tired of arguing with her.

He was able to make it as far as the organ, though there were moments when he doubted that he would make it.

He saw that the blood was gone from the keys. She must have cleaned it when she stormed from his room.

He laid his fingers on the ivory, savoring the smooth, cool feel.

He could not remember when he gone so long without his music.

He did not trust himself to play his own compositions yet. Too many of them were so intimately connected with Christine…he did not dare.

He closed his eyes and simply played, easily moving from pieces to piece, melodies he had learned so long ago that he know longer recalled when or where he had first heard them.

But, even without realizing it, he improvised…gradually changed each piece he played beyond recognition.

He almost forgot the pain as he played. Music has always been the most soothing drug for him.

He had not meant to let Meg find him there when she returned from rehearsals. Assuming she did return, that she did not change her mind.

But that was where he was when she limped down the dark passageway on aching feet.

---------

She shook her head with disbelief when she heard the faint music in the dark passageway. 

_Surely, he wouldn't… _

But, yes, he was there, leaning over the organ. He seemed oblivious to her in the doorway.

_Oh, Erik, you're impossible!  
_  
She noticed he had not bothered to put on the mask. And she found that the rapt look of concentration on his face seemed to almost soften even the worst of his deformity..._almost._


	19. Chapter 19

She waited a few minutes before she approached the organ. She was tired, she wanted nothing more than to slip off her shoes and sit down on the floor beside him. To close her eyes and simply listen as he played so beautifully.

But she could see that he was tired. She knew instinctively that he must have been for much of the afternoon.

He looked up and met her eyes. She stifled the urge to laugh at the mix of sheepishness and guilt on his face.

She tried to give him a stern glare, but knew she didn't quite succeed.

She went up the steps to him and gently took his arm.

"Erik, why must you be so stubborn?"

"Stubborn, Meg? I would have died long, long ago if I were not stubborn, as you say. Ask the Daroga sometime."

She had her little supper at his bedside and told him of the managers' plans for a gala.

He seemed to take little interested in the news, though she knew the mysterious Opera Ghost had always taken a personal and, sometimes, frightening interest in every production for as long as she could remember. 

"They are only giving us a fortnight to prepare."

"A fortnight should be more than enough. You said there was no new material to be used."

"Yes, but…"

"Then a fortnight is enough."

Meg sighed. She wasn't sure how she was going to look after him and rehearse for the gala.

At least, he was getting stronger now.

_And what then? _

"They will announce roles tomorrow," she toying with her uneaten bread. 

-------------------

That night, as she settled onto the bed near him, she could not remember being more exhausted 

"Erik, will you talk to me a little while?"

"If you would like."

"About Christine?"

She felt him tense beside her.

"No! Don't ask me…"

"Please, Erik. I want to know what happened that night. I want to hear it from you."

There was silence between them.

"Not tonight, Meg. Tomorrow, after rehearsals."

"Do you promise?"

Another silence.

"Very well, Meg. If it makes you happy, I promise."

_If it makes you happy… _

As she let her tired body relaxed into sleep, Meg's hand slipped into his and he did not draw away.


	20. Chapter 20

Erik lay awake for a long time that night. In the darkness, the only sounds were the faint lap of the water against the portcullis and the whisper of Meg's breath.

Each night she had curled against him and he had not had the strength to push her away. He knew he could now, but he did not. He let her stay where she was, warm, secure, and, now, familiar beside him.

She had asked him. He knew that such curiosity was inevitable. And, truth be told, he found himself wanting to tell.

He wanted another human being to know what had taken place that night.

But he was also afraid. How much could he really tell her? How much could she stand to hear?

_She says she wants to know…very well, she will know…everything. _

She stirred a little bit and moved even closer, quite carelessly letting her hair fall across his bare face. He reached up to sweep the curls away.

Then he stopped. He had never felt anything so soft on his twisted features.

He caught his breath when she turned and her face came to rest against his, her smooth cheek pressed to his own deformed one.

He did not dare move now, did not dare awaken her only to have her shrink back from him and scream in horror.

_She wouldn't do that..she's the one who took the mask away. She's touched you…touched your face last night._

No, he'd seen the look in her eyes when she'd returned and seen him with out his mask. He'd seen the way her gaze darted away to the floor.

_This cannot go on…it will not go on. _

He knew she would not stay. Once she heard the truth from him, she would leave. She would never come back again.

This would be the last time he would know what it was like to feel a woman beside him in the night, however innocently.

He was so tired. The effort of playing the organ with his injuries had drained his strength again. But he did not want to sleep now.

He wanted only to hold back the dawn, a dawn he could not even see in this place of constant shadows and endless isolation. 

-------------------


	21. Chapter 21

Meg did not dare open her eyes. She had turned in her sleep and now she realized her cheek was pressed against his face…against the right side of his face.  
_  
I wish I hadn't asked him not to wear it…I wish he had that mask on now. _

She didn't want to feel that twisted flesh against her own.  
_  
But you know what he looks like now…you should be used to the sight of it…of him…you've touched his face. _

She felt the sting of guilty tears and took a deep breath.

_It's just a face…just his face...just Erik. _

She thought suddenly of the Vicomte de Chagny. He was considered very handsome, the object of the romantic daydreams of more than a few ballet rats.

But…if Erik had not been deformed…if he had not been condemned to this terrible isolation…would Christine have loved him then?

_It's not fair… _

She shivered a little. It was chilly there in the vaults below the theatre and the blanket had fallen out of her reach.

She rolled away from him carefully. It was almost morning, almost time for rehearsals.

Tucking her knees under her chin, she sat up and watched him sleep.

She dreaded the coming night. She regretted asking him for the truth concerning Christine and that too-perfect Vicomte.

She picked up the blanket and adjusted it over his tense and too-thin body. As she leaned over him, she suddenly felt the need to press a reassuring kiss on his marred forehead.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't force herself to brush her lips against his skin.

His hand lay across his chest, the fingers so long and pale and graceful against the black silk of his dressing gown.

Feeling the guilt rising in her, she bent down and gently kissed his wrist, feeling his pulse against the smooth, cool skin.

Then she picked up her shoes and slipped out of the room. It was going to be a long, tiresome day, she was certain.

------------------

Erik dressed slowly and a little awkwardly. He picked up his mask and slipped it over his face, realizing that the cool porcelain felt unfamiliar now against his ravaged skin.

He found his cloak where Meg had left it, draped quite neatly over a carved trunk that stood near the door to Christine's room.

_Her_ room…with its carved bed and silken chamber. A queen's sanctuary meant as a bridal chamber.

He wondered if Meg had seen that room. Surely she had been curious enough to look. Yet she had not mentioned it.

He left, not by the lake or by the little path to the Rue Scribe, but through a narrow passage that lead up into the shadows beneath the stage.

He had never expected to venture out again, but now he made his way through a trap door and up to a tiny catwalk far above the flies.

Below him, he saw the same faces that had always been there…Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer, even La Carlotta.

He was surprised to see her. Surely, after the death of that pompous fool Piangi…but there she was, her face free of its usual paint and her overly-fashionable frocks exchanged for one of plain gray silk.

He had stood there many times, watching the daily goings on in his theatre. Watched managers come and go, watched chorus members and ballet rats squabble over trifles, watch Carlotta preening with her hangers-on.

And, always, his eyes had been drawn from them to one young woman with dark brown curls and a shy smile…

Meg was there, a drab shawl hanging loosely over her plain white practice frock and her hair tied back with a broad ribbon.

His fingers curled around the cold railing as he steadied himself through a moment of dizziness. He was accustomed to these high, narrow walkways…like the trapdoors and black labyrinths below, they were second-nature to him.

Meg was right, he admitted to himself with reluctance. He was still weak. He should not have come.

But when he left the catwalk, he did not return to his lair. He found the tiny, steep stairs that led upward, following the absurdly ornate iron steps up to the rooftop.

He did not come up to the roof often by day. And he had not come back since that night when, hidden between the great wings of a gilded angel, he heard Christine betray him.

The cloak was painfully heavy on his shoulder as he pulled it close and walked out onto the leads.

He found a ledge on the base of a statue, a place to sit beneath a muse with the build of an Amazon.

Leaning back against the pedestal, he let the chill stone numb the pain and closed his eyes.

Then he felt something nudge gently against his leg. Looking down, he saw a petite black cat twining round his ankles.


End file.
